Dazed & Confused
by Nightwind
Summary: See Swoop. See Slag. See Swoop confuse the holy heck out of Slag without saying a single word. Slash, 1st chapter is touchy-feely, 2nd is tame. I thought it was done after Ch. 1; they begged to differ...
1. Chapter 1

_I swear I was I was writing "What Goes Around" yesterday. (I'm up to my __**fourth**__ re-write of That Damned Chapter! Grrr…) Somehow… this came out instead. Your guess is as good as mine as to why. NOT WGA!Swoop, obviously. So…uh, enjoy?_

_

* * *

  
_

Out of habit rather than genuine interest, Slag looked up when the door to the common room of the Dinobots' shared quarters slid open. Swoop stepped across the threshold and then stopped two paces in, staring at the wall across from him as if there was something eminently fascinating there. More fascinating than one of Grimlock's potted palm trees, at least. It was easy to tell from the look on Swoop's face that something was wrong; he had always been an open book, even more so than Sludge.

"Bad day?" Slag asked, grunting the question and imbuing it with every bit of compassion that he possessed...which wasn't very much.

Swoop looked at him, blinking and pulling his gaze away from the wall, anguish on his face. Slag, suppressing a put-upon sigh, gave him a come-hither jerk of his head, answering the silent question that Swoop's eyes had so eloquently telegraphed to him. Swoop gave Slag a grateful look and approached him slowly, not knowing quite what to expect. Cautiously, ever so cautiously, he settled himself into Slag's lap, curling up against him like a lost and forlorn child, his cheek resting on Slag's broad chest. His wings made the maneuver difficult, but Slag managed to wrap his arms awkwardly around Swoop, holding him while he shook in his arms, little whimpers escaping him occasionally. Slag silently stroked his back as well as he could manage.

Swoop usually sought out Snarl for this sort of thing, on the rare occasions that he broke down. Snarl was certainly not the most verbose individual in the universe, but he and Swoop had a deeper level of kinship of a sort, having been brought online at the same time. They were closer to each other than either of them was to the other three Dinobots. Most of the time, no words were needed between them. But if Snarl wasn't available, Swoop would usually seek out Sludge, and if that failed, there was Grimlock.

But never Slag.

Mostly this was because Slag had always vehemently pushed Swoop away, and not just in the physical sense. Comforting others patently wasn't Slag's thing. Neither was gooshiness in general. And _certainly_ not snuggling. The only reason he was allowing this to happen now, Slag firmly told himself, was because the other three Dinobots were away on some mission somewhere. Swoop hadn't accompanied them because the medbay was already short-staffed, and Slag had been left behind because he was still recovering from the effects of their last mission, which had left him close to dead.

It was Swoop who had dragged him back from that brink. Yet again. As long minutes passed and Swoop somehow managed to snuggle himself even closer into Slag's body, his own body's trembling slowly fading and his occasional whimpers bleeding into silence, Slag told himself that he was only feeling grateful, that that was why he couldn't deny Swoop what he wanted, as much as he might want to deny him.

Grudgingly, after long and silent minutes, Slag asked, "Do you want to tell me about it?"

Swoop stirred in Slag's arms and gave him a wide-eyed look, surprised at the question. He bit down on his lip thoughtfully, considering, and then he shook his head silently.

Slag had just long enough to suppress a thankful sigh at the news that a long and squishy conversation wasn't in the offing before Swoop was suddenly moving with urgency and distinct purpose, eventually ending up straddling Slag's lap. And then he was suddenly kissing Slag. Very _demandingly_ kissing him, no less. The much-smaller and generally easy-going Dinobot was suddenly a force not to be denied.

A dazed utterance of the word "Wha...?" bounced around in Slag's processors as he found himself impulsively kissing Swoop back for half a second. Then he pulled himself away with a growl, lifting his arms to push none-too-gently against the fronts of Swoop's shoulders.

"What are you _doing_?" he demanded to know, staring eye-to-eye with Swoop.

Swoop didn't answer, instead spent a moment regarding Slag with his head tilted appraisingly to the side, his eyes narrowed speculatively...and then he fell to nuzzling, licking, and biting one side of Slag's neck, starting from the point where it joined his shoulder and then slowly and assiduously working his way up toward Slag's jaw line, leaving nothing untouched or unexplored in between those two endpoints.

The rational part of Slag was still reeling, still shocked, and still insistently informing him that he needed to put a stop to this. Now. But...Rational Slag was suddenly not in control. He only had tenuous control even at the best of times, which was why Slag was often getting himself mostly-killed. And this certainly was _not_ a situation that prompted one to be rational, what with his warm and apparently – and suddenly and shockingly – willing comrade practically throwing himself at him.

Slag almost literally felt his resolve crumbling, felt rational Slag abruptly disappearing as if he'd been suddenly sucked into a black hole, never to return. And good riddance, as far as non-rational Slag was concerned. His hands, which had been attempting to hold Swoop at bay, were now gripping Swoop's shoulders for an entirely different reason, fingers digging in hard whenever Swoop happened upon a particularly sensitive spot. Little appreciative grunts were emerging from Slag's throat now, too, echoing Swoop's enticingly aggressive snarls and growls.

For long moments, Slag felt paralyzed. Something was faintly buzzing in his processors, informing him that he should be doing something to Swoop in return. But...he couldn't. And then he discovered that Swoop apparently didn't want him to do anything in return, anyway. When Slag finally managed to move his hands in order to offer up something in return for the amazing sensations that Swoop was wringing from him, Swoop emitted a particularly aggressive growl and then unceremoniously pinned Slag's forearms to the arm of the chair. Slag knew that he could break Swoop's grip easily if he wanted to...but at the moment, he really, _really_ didn't want to.

Dear, sweet Primus, Swoop was _good_ at this...

He was really good at kissing, too, Slag was soon to discover, once Swoop reached Slag's jaw line. He trailed deliciously brutal bites along it, and then hungrily found Slag's mouth again, devouring him, his tongue exploring everything inside of Slag's mouth that it could reach. This time, Slag did not pull away. It did not even enter his mind to pull away. And for this, at least, he could reciprocate. And he did so. With gusto.

Swoop's hands let go of Slag's forearms then and began to roam all over Slag's body instead, his small fingers digging into crevices and seams that he knew were very sensitive while also finding hot spots that Slag hadn't even known that he'd had. As a result, Slag became convinced this was a dream. That he'd fallen asleep in his favorite chair and was having a really, _really_ good dream. So good of a dream, in fact, that he knew that when he woke from it, he wouldn't be able to look Swoop in the face _ever_ again. For that matter, he probably wouldn't be able to see Swoop in quite the same way again. From now on, his view of Swoop would be all colored by...by _this_.

And...and by _that._ Slag squealed – _Squealed_, dammit! – as Swoop slithered from his lap, knelt between his legs, gave Slag a deliciously evil grin...and then began to do equally evil and delicious things to _that_ panel. With his tongue. Growling happily all the while. Helplessly, Slag slouched down into the chair, as if he'd suddenly half-melted, and moaned for all he was worth. He barely had the wherewithal to lift a hand to encouragingly stroke Swoop's head while he worked his marvelous magic.

"Is this what you do with Snarl, then?" he managed to choke out a few moments later as curiosity momentarily peeked through the mounting bliss that was pouring into him, creeping along every sensory pathway that he possessed, making him shiver all over.

Swoop snorted, and Slag squirmed at the resulting rush of hot air against him. Swoop looked up at him, wide-eyed, and slowly and solemnly shook his head a few times before he went back to work and Slag went back to moaning.

Slag was _still_ convinced that he was dreaming even when Swoop suddenly scrambled to his feet a few moments later and then, grabbing onto one of Slag's arms, yanked at him meaningfully. Obligingly, Slag stood, his healing leg and the large, freshly-welded tear along the entire length of his left side protesting the effort. Oddly enough, they didn't seem to protest at all as Swoop dragged Slag off to Slag's berth.

Not, of course, that Slag put up much in the way of resistance.

* * * * *

"What in Primus's name was _that_ all about?" Slag wanted to know, many hours later. He was thoroughly dazed...and thoroughly satiated...and thoroughly drained.

Medical training, Slag had just discovered, had all _sorts_ of unexpected yet deeply delightful fringe benefits.

Swoop, his forearms folded on top of Slag's chest and his chin resting delicately on top of them, merely gave Slag an enigmatic half-smile. Then he moved his arms out of the way, stretching them lazily up and over Slag's shoulders. He turned his head, resting his cheek over Slag's spark. Sighing softly, deeply contented, he immersed himself in listening to the comforting and so-_alive_ pulsating of Slag's spark. The pulsing and the soothing waves of warmth that Slag was radiating very quickly lulled Swoop to sleep, his sprawled body suddenly becoming heavy against Slag's. He obviously wasn't intending to go anywhere any time soon, and so Slag was apparently not going anywhere, either.

Grumbling softly, still thoroughly confused but not really complaining about it, Slag wrapped his arms around Swoop's narrow waist and, having nothing better to do since he was apparently going to be used as a full-body pillow for the foreseeable future, he went to sleep, too.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hi."

In response to the softly-spoken word, Slag leapt into the air, spun, and landed facing the voice. His gun automatically and unerringly leveled on the intruder, and his finger reflexively half-tightened on the trigger. Then he growled, dismayed not because he was now aiming at Swoop instead of at a target, but simply because Swoop was there at all.

Growling again, this time in frustration, he jabbed his weapon meaningfully at Swoop and ground out around an angrily-clenched jaw, "Don't _do_ that!"

"I made noise!" Swoop protested, but quietly. There was an unhappy trill in his voice as he stared at Slag's weapon for a moment before angling his gaze up to his face. "You didn't hear me."

Which was, Slag allowed, true. He'd been completely absorbed in his task of blowing as many targets to kingdom come as he could manage. Destruction was always a good way to put disturbing things out of his mind, and the target range outside of Autobot Headquarters was a good place to destroy things without having to suffer a sanctimonious lecture about it afterwards. The only problem was that he did become completely absorbed in the destruction that he wrought; if Swoop had been an enemy, Slag would have been caught completely unawares. Thankfully, Swoop was a…a…

…He had no idea what Swoop was, really. Not anymore. Not after what had happened between them three days before. They'd been completely avoiding each other since then. Or rather, Swoop had been avoiding Slag.

When Slag had awoken, three evenings ago, feeling quite mellow and uncharacteristically happy with the universe in general, Swoop had been gone. He'd been disappointed by that, but he'd figured that Swoop had merely had duties to attend to, that he'd see him later, when he went off-shift. That they would talk then. As much as Slag generally hated talking, even he had known that he and Swoop would need to talk about what had happened between them. And he'd been OK with that. He'd almost looked _forward_ to it, even, for reasons that he couldn't quite comprehend.

But then Swoop hadn't come home that night. Or the next night. Slag had seen no trace of Swoop and had had too much pride to go and seek him out, even though he'd come to the conclusion that Swoop was most likely hiding out in the medbay. The other Dinobots had returned to Headquarters the second evening, flush with victory, and Grimlock had all unwittingly asked Slag where Swoop was. He had been taken aback by Slag's deeply surly reply, which had consisted of a scowl that had made even Grimlock take a step away and then a snarled, "How the hell would _I_ know?!" before he had stomped off in a quiet but slowly-building rage.

Slag had become convinced that he'd merely been used and, worse, he did not even know _why_ he'd been used. Somehow, the not knowing made things about twelve times worse. The resulting rage was eating at him, clawing at him, seductively encouraging him to do all sorts of things that would have horrible consequences for Swoop. He'd gotten better at controlling anger over the fifteen years of his life so far, but he most certainly had his limits, and he was definitely pushing those limits at the moment.

And now the object of his rage was suddenly here, standing not ten feet away from him, regarding him…nervously, Slag now realized. For all that Swoop was studiously keeping his face composed, his wings were trembling, and the trembling had nothing to do with the chill of a dismal, rainy, early April morning. Slag lowered his weapon with a contemptuous snort and deliberately turned his back on Swoop.

"Why are you here?" he tossed belligerently over his shoulder after a long moment of giving Swoop the silent treatment.

Swoop flinched deeply at the tone, but remained silent, staring at Slag's back. He could practically see the rage oozing out of Slag, could almost feel the searing heat of it pounding against him in almost tangible waves. Had this been maybe five years ago, Swoop was certain that he'd be dead right about now, reduced to a smoking, gooey pile of, indeed, slag. And the worst part about it was that he would have _deserved_ it, _did_ deserve it. Swoop acknowledged that. He'd behaved horribly. Shamefully.

But he'd been…confused. He really had no idea why he had done what he'd done, why he had…had _seduced_ Slag. There was no other word for it. He'd had a horrible day, it was true, had suffered the first death of a patient that he'd been solely in charge of, a patient that he had tried so hard to save, giving everything to the effort but to no ultimate avail. But why he'd afterwards done…done _those_ things…and to Slag, of all people, he truly did not know. It had just…happened. Perhaps he had needed to connect with something living again, had needed to be reminded that _he_ was still alive and still useful for something, and so he had needed someone.

No, that wasn't right. He had needed _Slag_, specifically. No one else, he now knew, would have sufficed. Swoop was through with denying it.

He didn't regret what he'd done with Slag. At all. He had regrets only about how he'd behaved afterwards. But the lack of regret, the rock-solid certainty that he had _not_ made a mistake, had scared him, too. Badly. He'd left Slag's berth in a barely-restrained panic, had stayed in the medbay around the clock, had offered very weak excuses to Ratchet about why he had needed to stay there. He had told lies to Ratchet, and he had never told anyone a lie before. Emotions and lies and something that wasn't regret and many other things that he didn't know how to address much less how to deal with had piled up on top of him with staggering speed, quickly overwhelming and threatening to crush him, to drown him.

And now, on top of everything else, he'd gone and made Slag hate him, which was the very last thing that he'd wanted to do. Swoop had been revealed as a coward, and Slag hated cowards. So Swoop acknowledged that Slag hated him with good reason. For _many_ good reasons, in fact. Swoop had, to borrow a term that he'd heard Sparkplug often use, "screwed up royally." He'd screwed up _everything_ royally, and he had absolutely no idea how to go about fixing it. But Ratchet had spoken to Grimlock, and Grimlock had spoken, in no uncertain terms, to Swoop, and…

"Grimlock told me that I have to fix things," Swoop said to Slag's back in a small, chastened, and very tremulous voice. "But…I don't know _how_!"

The utter despair in Swoop's voice, the little bird-like wail that his words almost devolved into, had an effect on Slag, an effect he didn't really like or want. He _wanted_ to be angry. He wanted to _stay_ angry. There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to strangle Swoop, even.

But he'd never been able to stay angry at Swoop for very long. Swoop knew exactly what to do to infuriate Slag, knew all the right buttons to push, and he often did so apparently for fun. But somehow, for some reason, Slag found that Swoop was always easily forgivable. Over the years, Slag had in fact begun to feel curiously neglected if Swoop _didn't_ infuriate him on a regular basis. Just recently, Snarl had informed Slag in his piercingly perceptive yet bland and graceless way that Swoop's button-pushing was in fact flirting, that he'd been flirting with Slag for _years_ now. Slag had scoffed at the notion then, even though Snarl had repeatedly insisted that it was true. But now…given what had happened…

Curiosity that was both wanted and unwanted at the same time began to nudge insistently against Slag's insulating wall of rage, and he found himself half-turning toward Swoop almost against his will, watching Swoop sideways. The smaller Dinobot fidgeted, his face a picture of anguished indecision, of dismay and not a little fear. Had he been anyone else, such an expression would have earned only Slag's scorn, his contempt. But Swoop was the exception. Swoop was the exception to just about _everything_ as far as Slag was concerned. And his expression, his posture, and his obvious remorse all further chipped away at Slag's resolve to be and to remain angry. Still, he was determined that he was not going to be the first to speak.

"I'm sorry," Swoop said in the tiniest of voices then, cringing and staring almost fearfully at Slag. "I'm so sorry, Slag."

Slag growled low in his chest, more out of frustration now than anger, and he stalked toward Swoop, who to his credit held his ground. Slag took to circling Swoop like a vulture homing in on a dying animal.

"Why?" Slag demanded to know. "Why are you sorry, Swoop?"

Swoop blinked; it was neither the reaction nor the question that he'd been expecting, and surprise pushed aside fear for a moment.

"Are you sorry that you slept with me? Is that it?" Slag was continuing, and his disparaging, contemptuous tone cut into Swoop like the biggest, sharpest sword in the universe.

"No!" he cried, not giving the answer any thought because he hadn't needed to give it any thought. He _wasn't_ sorry for that. At all.

But that wasn't the answer that Slag had been expecting. He stopped his pacing practically in mid-stride, directly behind Swoop. He watched Swoop shiver and hug himself for a few moments, and then he watched as the smaller Dinobot turned slowly to face him. His expression was resolute now, and he held his chin high, apparently done with cringing. Slag approved.

"I'm sorry because I ran away afterward," Swoop was growling quietly, his eyes flashing with suddenly urgent sincerity. "Because I _stayed_ away. I was confused, felt so many things and didn't understand any of them. Was _afraid_. Thought you'd hate me for what I'd done, _knew_ you'd hate me for running away like a coward, but I just couldn't…go… Couldn't face you. Couldn't _stand_ the thought of you hating me. Not when I…I…"

The words just fell out of Swoop's mouth, one after the other in a flood that he couldn't stop once it had started. And when his voice trailed off helplessly, silence fell between them. Swoop stared fixedly at the ground beneath his feet, terrified of what might be showing on Slag's face after his confession. The silence stretched on and on between them, pregnant with tension. It was, surprisingly, Slag who broke it.

"Don't hate you, Swoop," he said quietly. "_Can't_ hate you. I've tried. I thought," he added even more quietly after an uncertain pause, "that you were ashamed of...of me."

Swoop's head jerked up, and he met Slag's gaze disbelievingly.

"What?" he responded. "No! No, I was ashamed of _me_. For…for doing that. For…forcing you."

At that, Slag barked out a humorless laugh, and Swoop's entire body jerked at the unexpected reaction. He could have sworn that he saw amusement dancing across Slag's split visor.

"You seriously think," Slag asked, "that _you_ could force _me_ to do something that I don't want to do?"

Yep, definitely amusement.

"But…" Swoop protested weakly.

"Was _surprised_, Swoop," Slag replied, talking over Swoop's attempted protest. "Not unwilling."

He folded his arms over his chest then, his expression almost expectant. Swoop just gaped at him, awestruck and dumbfounded, his jaw dropping as he realized that he'd been afraid for nothing, concerned for nothing. He'd stayed away for three days for nothing. Absolutely _nothing_.

"Oh," was all that Swoop could think of to actually say, however, once his thoughts had stopped reeling and as he began to feel a million-ton weight lifting from his shoulders.

"Wouldn't mind doing it again," Slag added, shrugging nonchalantly, staring down at Swoop's face challengingly.

And Swoop's mouth fell open again. Smirking, Slag reached across the short distance between them and pushed up against Swoop's chin with one finger, closing his mouth for him.

"Might want to keep that closed," Slag teased. "Unless you're going to put it to good use."

Swoop just gaped at him. And Slag laughed. With actual humor this time.

"C'mon, Swoop," he said, stowing his gun, finally. "Think we need to have a talk."

He turned from the dumbfounded Swoop then, and he'd walked maybe five paces away before he realized that Swoop wasn't following him. He turned around to find Swoop staring at him instead of following him, still rooted to the same spot as if he'd been welded there. And, sure enough, his mouth was agape again. He was looking at Slag as if he'd just turned pink and started dancing ballet. Slag sighed, but there was a distinct note of affection in the sigh.

"_What_?" he wanted to know, calling back to Swoop.

Swoop blinked at him. Slowly. Once. Twice. Three times. Then he shook himself visibly, and his face split into a sly smile.

"You want to talk," Swoop explained. "I…don't know what to do with that."

Slag snorted.

"Oh, shut up," he growled. And then, saying nothing else, he turned around again and started to stalk back toward Autobot Headquarters, confident that this time Swoop would follow in his wake. Because he _always_ did.


End file.
